Author Note: As of 2/20/12 Sorry to anyone previously following this, but I had deleted it and am now reposting it. I've made some editing changes so you may want to look the chapters over as it will affect the story.
I don't own LOTR. I can only dream of ever creating stories as epic as them.
When Isildur cut the Ring from Sauron's hand, the Dark Lord's body disintegrated and his spirit shattered. Part of that spirit remained in the form of the giant eye at the top of Barad-Dur. But a small part of him disappeared. No one knew what became of that missing piece of his spirit. As the centuries passed, it was forgotten. Those few who did possibly remember disregarded it as insignificant.
How very wrong they were. For even the smallest of things can make the largest of changes.
…
"Anaya is leaving" said Bergalan. The old elf looked down in sorrow at the thought of his only child. He slowly turned his grey eyes back to the one in front of him. "She feels naught but grief anymore; no amount of sunlight brightens her world. She asks if you would escort her to the Grey Havens."
"She means to sail?" whispered Gorlan, his daughter's childhood friend and one Bergalan considered as his own son.
Before Bergalan could respond, the younger elf leapt to his feet and burst out: "No! She cannot! I will follow her to the Grey Havens if she tries to leave, but only to tie her to my horse and drag her back!"
"Gorlan," Bergalan sighed. "It is her choice. She is unhappy here; let her go where she may find peace."
"What of you, her father? She is your daughter. You cannot possibly want her to go!" came the shouted reply.
"I do not wish her to leave, but if it meant her grief subsided, then yes, I believe she should go. I would rather she be a thousand leagues away and happy, then right beside me and in pain."
Gorlan shook his head. "I cannot think that way. I do not think I'm strong enough to let her go."
…
The subject of Bergalan and Gorlan's conversation, the elf lady Anaya, lay along the gilded couch on one of the many balconies in Rivendell. One pale hand draped over the edge of the couch, dangling limply a few inches from the ground. Her typically gleaming hair was fading to a dull flaxen, her pale blue eyes held no light, and the only color in her skin was the barest touch of pink in her lips.
A cool autumn breeze blew through the valley, stirring Anaya's hair and bringing the scent of rain to her nose. Several fallen leaves lifted and blew up onto her chest and lingered there. Yet there was no reaction from the figure on the couch.
A sting of pain and fear pierced Gorlan's heart when he came and saw her lying as if death had already taken her.
"Anaya, Arwenamin!" he cried, rushing to her side. He fell to his knees beside the couch and clasped the cold hand that lay over the side.
Finally, the anguished lady reacted to something. Her eyes opened and her head turned slowly towards his voice.
"Gorlan," she whispered, voice strained from disuse. "Mellon nin, why do cry out for me? I was standing on the edge of the white shore, the foam rushing around my feet. I was ready to leap into the waves and your voice called me back. Why will you not let me go?"
"You were dreaming, Anaya. You are still in Rivendell. And it would gladden my heart if you remained, so much so you cannot possibly imagine."
Anaya sighed, turning her gaze to stare at the sky.
"I cannot. My heart is in so much pain, and I do not even know why. All I know is I cannot take it anymore. I feel the life leaving my body even now."
Gorlan had been raised and hardened as a warrior. Yet his experiences with warfare were nothing compared to this. Lying before him was the woman he'd always cared for, the one he always looked forward to returning to after a long journey, and now…she was dying. It was obvious she was fading. The thought of losing her filled him with more terror than the thought of facing down a Balrog unarmed.
She is fading…she is dying.
And he had never told her he loved her.
"Anaya," he whispered. He kissed the back of her hand, feeling the iciness of skin against his lips. He did not know what else to say to her, what else he could possibly do. Anything he could possibly say seemed in vain.
He stayed kneeling by her side, clutching her limp hand, until the sun faded behind the mountains. Anaya did not move or speak to him again in that time, her heart as dim and cold as the night.
…
Gorlan stood on one of the terraces overlooking the Bruinen. The stream of water roared as it cut through the valley below, carving out a path with nothing to stop it.
The dark-haired elf sighed. Life was not so simple. To carve a path for oneself, and be able to follow it was easy to say, maybe even to plan, but not so easy to do.
The mid-morning sun shone down onto the Elf Haven, warming the autumn day. He'd stayed at Anaya's side into the night, but by the time the moon had risen over the mountains and moved into the east, he'd dropped her hand and left. She'd lain there like a corpse on a funeral bed-cold, silent, still. He'd wandered through the darkened halls feeling grief reach into his own heart and diminish his spirit. The entire night he went without rest, until the sun rose over the Misty Mountains, and some small amount of peace came back into his heart.
He did not want to give up hope. He wanted to believe Anaya could be saved, that he could convince her of a reason to stay in Middle-Earth, even for a little while. He knew one day all the Elves, himself included, would pass over the sea to the Undying Lands. But why now? Twenty-five hundred years was but a small while to an elf, but it was his entire lifetime he'd spent in Middle-Earth. It was the only home he'd ever known and truthfully, he was loathe to leave it.
He felt selfish admitting it, but one of the main reasons he did not want Anaya to leave was because he himself was not ready to go, and he couldn't imagine a life without her. If she left, she would be gone, until he finally followed her. If she stayed, there was the possibility her spirit would simply fade away and she would die. Either way, he'd lose her.
Was it selfish of him to want her to stay because of the love he bore her? But there was always the possibility she did not confer feelings back to him. It may have been a different matter if she did, but alas for him, that was not the case.
A bell tolled in the distance, its clear notes interrupting the calm of the morning. Gorlan had heard rumors—Lord Elrond was planning something. Bilbo the Elf-Friend have arrived in Rivendell some time beforehand and just a week ago Estel and four hobbits, one of them—Bilbo's own relative it turned out—was wounded by a dark blade and healed by Lord Elrond. In the past few days other strangers arrived to Imladris including a stern man from Gondor, some dwarves, and three elves from the Kingdom of Mirkwood, one whom he recognized as their Prince.
Yes, something was definitely going on, and it was not a party. There were whispers of an evil power growing, a threat invading the free people of Middle-Earth.
Was it possible this evil somehow affected Anaya? Her descent into grief and despair had seemed so sudden, like a sharp wind rising and falling instantly over a plain. What if it had not been sudden and he had simply been blind? Had this torture affected Anaya's heart and soul for months or years and it was only just now he was realizing it?!
What a friend you are, Gorlan! The woman you claim to love has been in pain and sorrow and yet you did not recognize it!
Never in two and a half millennia had Gorlan felt so conflicted. His mind told him it was wrong and selfish of him to keep Anaya from Vailnor. Going there meant a life away from all the grief and despair she felt. She would spend eternity in peace alongside the Valar, and never again be troubled by the woes of a mortal world.
But his heart could not accept it. He did not know when his friendship with Anaya had deepened into love, but only that was stronger than any ocean waves that would bear her ship away.
Another bell tolled, signaling the noon hour. The elf was startled, not realizing how long he'd stood on the terrace lost in thought.
In all his mulling and despair, he knew only some things for certain: his love for Anaya was true, as was his desire for her to be with him, and he would do anything within his power to save her from the darkness that made its way into her soul.
….
Leaves turned to gold and flaming red and fell as autumn continued. Eventually, it faded into the beginning of winter, though cold and snow did not penetrate the elves' valley home. A number of scouts and messengers had returned to Rivendell and Gorlan among them, for Lord Elrond had sent him with a party north into the Ettenmoors, though when he returned he would not speak to her of it.
Anaya could not blame him. She'd been cold and distance, often avoiding him, and nearly everyone in fact and only was around others if they sought her out. She tried to fight what has in her heart and soul, the darkness, the pain, and the fear, but even with her Elven strength she was succumbing, and quickly.
The worst part of it all was she could not comprehend how or when these feelings came to her. The pain had simply entered her, and like a ravenous wolf, was intent on devouring her soul. She was terrified, yet kept her fear and pain locked inside. She could not explain the feeling, though she wondered if this was how a mortal felt when they were ill and dying.
She was dying, she feared, for she felt life leaving her. Physically, life was draining from her body. Her chest ached, she felt unusually weary and cold all the time. She did not have an appetite, nor could she sleep at night. This was not normal for one of the Eldar; they did not get ill as mortals did. Her very soul was suffering, and through that, took its toll on her body.
A shadow passed into her mind as the sun faded out of sight. It overran her mind with twisted thoughts and malice. She would lie in a daze, unable to fully slip into Elven dreams and rest. But she could not explain it; she could not tell of it.
Her father recognized the pain in her heart, seeing her physical self diminish. He'd questioned her, monitored her, even begged her, trying to understand her pain and provide her comfort. But he could not. Gorlan had tried as well, for he had always been her best and most loyal friend, but she could not explain her pain.
She feared it was contagious, that somehow her pain might pass to those closest to her. That caused her even more grief—that she would be the cause of her loved ones' own sorrows. Guilt racked her body every time she thought of it. Sometimes the pains were so great, they would overtake her mind, and consume her with the most terrible of feelings—enough that sometimes she wanted to run and cast herself off the mountainside into the river below and end all the pain. Of course, that was a ridiculous solution, one she almost always quickly dismissed, for what would cause them more grief than if one of the Firstborn took their own lives?
…
Gorlan was in his room, eyeing the edge of his sword. He ran the whetstone over it again, determined it was not sharp enough. Finally satisfied, he sheathed it in its ornate leather scabbard and went through his mental list.
He'd decided to leave Rivendell again. He had to do something to help Anaya and sitting around the Homely House wasn't it. He mentioned it to Bergalan, though he did not explain exactly why he was going. He didn't need to as the wise, older elf could guess simply by looking into his eyes.
He shuffled through the saddlebags again for a third time, feeling as if something was being forgotten. He wasn't bringing much; a simple change of clothes, a cloak, some lembas wrapped in leaves, a waterskin. He had more with weapons, bringing his sword, Narding, that originally belonged to his father and had been wielded during the Last Alliance, his long dagger, a pair of second, smaller knives—one on the back of his belt, one in his boot—and a bow and quiver filled with two dozen arrows. It was a dangerous world beyond the safety of Rivendell and he needed to be well armed.
"My father says you are leaving us. Why?" a soft voice from the doorway asked.
Gorlan turned. Anaya was standing in the doorway, pale and downcast. He was unsure what to say to her. It had been one thing to tell Bergalan; the older elf was not only the father of the one he loved, but had also been his captain on missions and acted as a second father to him since his own parents perished.
Finally, he spoke the first words that came to mind. "Evil is spreading in the world, Anaya. I go to fight it. I cannot stay here when I could be out making a difference." This was true enough, though he was still unable to tell her she was the main reason for his departure. He gazed into her blue eyes. Was it possible she guessed it?
If she did, it did not show. She spoke to him in a quiet, weary voice. "The Age of Men is coming. Our time—the elves' time—is drawing to a close. Why can you not accept this?"
"Because…because I cannot accept a fate that has been decided for me. I feel no longing to leave just yet."
Anaya shook her head slowly, her loose hair gently swaying around her face. "You cannot put off the inevitable, nor change fate. It will come to pass; you know this. Even you will one day pass over the sea."
With a brief, forlorn gaze into his eyes, she turned and silently made her way out of the room.
…
Gorlan stood in the courtyard before the sun even rose, saddling Voronwer by the light of a flickering torch. The tall grey stallion looked at him with curious eyes, as if wondering what his friend had planned for them. Gorlan was dressed in simple traveling clothes and sturdy boots, his only armor a pair of vambraces along his forearms and spaulders on his shoulders. A deep blue cloak hung around him. His hair was down, brushed back off his face, which was frozen in a determined scowl. His knives hung from his belt and his bow and quiver were on his back. Narding hung from the saddle.
He was not the only one to be leaving Rivendell. The Fellowship of the Ring was scheduled to leave tomorrow evening. That was what Elrond had been preparing two months ago when all the strangers showed up. The Ring—the One Ring!—had fallen into the hands of a hobbit, and now that hobbit, his three friends, Estel, Mithrandir, Legolas of Mirkwood, a dwarf, and the Gondorian man were setting off on a quest to Mt. Doom to destroy it. It was most likely a suicide mission, everyone knew, but that little piece of gold had caused more anguish and destroyed more lives than one would think possible. For the sake of the world, it had to be destroyed.
Gorlan wished he could accompany them; after all, they were setting out to stop the world's greatest threat—Sauron the Deceiver. If there was one way to destroy the evil of the world, that had to be it. But Gorlan had not been invited to the Council of Elrond and he had not been chosen as one of the companions. He would have to set out and forge his own path and play a part on his own.
In all honesty, Gorlan hadn't been quite sure were to start. It wasn't as if he could ride straight into Mordor, slaughtering every orc, goblin, and foul beast that got it his way and expect anything to come of it. He'd debated and decided if there was anyone who might be able to provide him with aid, it would be Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien. Perhaps her wisdom could provide answers or at least comfort. He'd been to Lorien many times before, often as an escort of Lady Arwen when she went to visit her grandparents.
"Gorlan, why do seem intent to sneak away in the dawn hours?" A gentle male voice from the stairs broke through the morning quiet. Estel, Aragorn foster-son of Elrond stood behind him, a curious look on his face. He was already dressed in his typical weather-stained Ranger clothing, sword scabbard hanging casually from his hand.
"Gorlan, wait another day", the heir of Isuildur said. "Leave tomorrow with us. Accompany us south. We are headed in the same direction and could use an extra pair of keen eyes and experienced hands on our journey. You can break off and go your own way later, if you so wish."
Gorlan turned from where he was adjusting Voronwer's saddle. Of course, he wished he could go with them, but to intrude would be improper. They were going on a quest he knew little about, a group of nine people, most of them strangers to each other, for the sake of the world. No, he was simply an elf-warrior from Rivendell, not a Wizard, a Prince, an heir to a kingdom-just an Elf.
"I was not made a member of the Fellowship; I do not feel it would be appropriate if I joined you. Were I worthy of being a part of the Council or Fellowship, I would have been appointed so. As I am not, I must decline your offer, though I will thank you for proposing it."
"Gorlan, I know you and I have never been the closest of friends; that we have been ever at most acquaintances, but I am sincere my offer. Member of the Fellowship or not, I'm sure you can accompany us a little ways. No one will mind…except perhaps Gimli, the Dwarf." Aragorn replied with a small smile.
"I am sorry Aragorn Estel, but I have my own matters to attend to. I must go on my own path, as you must do yours." Gorlan stated firmly.
Aragorn's smile faded. "If that is what you choose…then I wish you luck. May the Valar watch over you."
"And you." Gorlan nodded to the man, then swung up on Voronwer. Aragon returned the gesture and walked away.
"Gorlan!" Another voice cried out; it seemed someone else was determined to stop him. He sighed, but quickly dismounted when he saw who it was.
It was Anaya. She strode right up to him and looked him in the eye.
"I came to tell you goodbye. I will not stop you from going, thought you do not show me the same."
"Anaya…"
Cutting him off, she held out a piece of folded leather to him. It was a sturdy leather jerkin, finely made, with leaf designs carved into the front.
"I made this for you." Anaya said softly. "It is dangerous out in the wild. I know a lot of armor would only slow you down, so I made this as light and flexible as possible." She pushed the jerkin into his hands.
The leather felt as soft as velvet, yet was as strong as chain-mail. He put it on over his tunic and was unsurprised to find it fit perfectly.
"Hannon le", he thanked her. "I will treasure this, for it came from the hands of the fairest lady in Middle-Earth."
Despite her pale, drawn complexion, Gorlan could have sworn Anaya blushed. "That title belongs to Lady Arwen" she insisted.
"If you insist. The second fairest lady in Middle-Earth. Regardless, I thank you for the gift. Surely it will keep me safe from any stray orc arrows."
The casual, carefree tone suddenly dropped as the seriousness of the world beyond Rivendell presented itself. He could very well die out there. He could never come back.
Unable to leave her without something of his, he pressed his ring into her hands. It was silver, with a dark blue stone in the center. The ring had belonged to his grandfather and had been passed down to him. The ring and his sword were the only things he had from his parents.
Anaya shook her head sadly. "I cannot take this." The silver circlet she was wearing caught and reflected the light of the torches around them. Her pale blue gown helped her look as if she had some color to her, but nothing could disguise the look in her eyes. Fear, pain, and sadness. They swirled around in the blue pool, turning it cloudy.
"I insist. Keep it for me."
The fair lady clutched the ring, then turned as if she was going to run away, but Gorlan grabbed her thin hand.
"Anaya…promise me something? Promise me you will not leave until I return."
Cloudy blue orbs stared into his gray ones. In a trembling voice, she asked, "And what if you do not return?"
There was no point in false reassurances. "Then promise me at least that you will go on and find happiness and peace, not grief and despair. Even" he swallowed. "…even if that does mean sailing."
"I cannot promise anything."
"Why are you now so cold?" Gorlan cried. "I would give all the life I possess to see you warm again. I miss the elleth I once knew."
Anaya's eyes were now on the ground. "She is still here. She is just lost."
Gorlan placed his fingers under her chin and gently lifted her head so he could stare into her eyes. "Then maybe you should let someone find her."
On a sudden bit of impulsiveness, while he still held her face in his hand, he leaned down and placed a gentle, chaste kiss on her lips.
"Farewell, Anaya. My heart shall weep until it sees thee again". Then he touched her cheek and left, not knowing when, or if, he'd see her again.
Because I do not feel like translating a bunch of Elvish, it will be in italics, unless its stuff most LOTR readers would know (hannon le-thank you, Ada-Dad, etc.). Assume any Elvish in here is Sindarian.
Please let me know what you think. Thanks.